For Moments and Balloons
by Lifeisforlivingoutloud
Summary: Alfred F. Jones lives in a world where nations exist, and he is one of them. But he is different. He can see the balloons. Every nation has a bundle of balloons tied to their wrists, all different colors, and string lengths too. During the revolution, England's disappear completely. What did Alfred do? Can he fix it? USUK Complete Oneshot M


Alfred F. Jones lives in a world where nations exist, and he is one of them. But he is different. He can see the balloons. Every nation has a bundle of balloons tied to their wrists, all different colors, and string lengths too. Each balloon is gathered during a moment of extreme sadness, joy, love, anger, fear, or loss. Old nations like the Italys and Spain have many balloons, while Alfred has just a few tied to his wrist. But one thing he has never seen before happens, as he leaves Arthur during the revolution. The balloons float away, and Arthur hasn't had any since the Revolutionary War. What had Alfred done? Can he change it? What happens when a balloon pops? Can you cut the balloons away?

**A/N: At bottom! And yes, I know balloons as we know them were not invented until 1824, but just go with it please, yeah?**

* * *

Alfred was special.

Not in that he was superbly talented in any given area, but in the way he saw things. His view of the world was something Francis would label innocent, but Ludwig would call ignorant. Was it really his fault, that his perspective was different from all the other nations'? How could he help it, that he had been a nation for only a few centuries. What had once been a nation full of proud people, with hearts that sang for independence and cried for equal opportunity had dulled over the years, and the people had become selfish, taking things for granted. Alfred still held his principles close to his heart. The shiny luster of a new nation would only last so long before it could fade, but Alfred, as a person, tried to keep his values alive. And maybe it was in this, that Francis was more correct than he would ever know.

* * *

Francis hadn't helped Alfred to destroy Arthur. Far from it. Arthur was one of his dearest friends, and after many a nation had faded into oblivion, England was one of the only countries left who understood the weary pull of time, and how it could drag you down in an instant, like an iron ball chained to your ankle in the middle of dark seas. The only reason he had ever assisted the American in the Revolutionary War was because he saw something. Something in the way the people held their heads up high, despite the burdens that gained weight with each passing day. As one of the older nations, Francis could not merely gloss over his bloody and sinful history. He could however, make something right again. And he saw that in Alfred, that he was young, and he was naïve. But above all, he was innocent. And he could become a strong nation, one that hopefully would not repeat the mistakes of his predecessors. And it was for that reason, that he had helped him.

It had been a rainy night when Alfred sat beside Francis, clothed in the blue uniform of the hastily formed militia of a nearby town. The battle was over, the war had been won. Francis wanted to smile, to laugh, to cry with joy that it was finally over. He had ignored the problems of his own people, and delved in Alfred's head on. Now that he realized the fragility of his own balance and wellbeing, he was exhausted. Francis had sunk to his knees as he heard the cries of victory from Alfred's soldiers. He rested on his heels, and sat on the closest surface, which had been a muddy outcropping. Not that his uniform could get any dirtier. It was covered in vivid scarlet and dried crimson, as well as the dust of the battlefield. No matter how many wars he had waged, and fights he had won, Francis never could lose the feeling that battle scars left deep within gave.

Hours later, after the field had cleared of all living bodies, he saw Alfred walking toward him, head bent. He sat, unheeding of the rain that still fell from the skies, and spattered the mud upon his boots. His head in his hands, the American wearily looked at Francis, his blue eyes dull. For a brief, paralyzing, absolutely terrifying moment, Francis's heart stopped in fear. Had Alfred's innocence left him? He had never given much thought to the possible situation. It began to beat again, although at a faster rate as soon as Alfred spoke.

"Francis, will Arthur be alright? I think I've done something terrible."

Francis wrapped an arm around Alfred's shoulder. His shoulders had broadened since the beginning of the war. The American had grown. And not just physically.

"Arthur... will survive. He has before. It is what nations are born to do. We stand the test of time, and now you are one of us. He has lost many colonies, and he will lose more. But he will go on, because he is strong. And I admire him for that," Francis dropped off. The silence Alfred replied with was deafening. Francis cleared his throat before continuing.

"You of all people should know Alfred, the strength Arthur has, non?" Francis smiled halfheartedly. He rubbed Alfred's back consolingly. He had to lean in to hear Alfred's response, although he still believed he had heard incorrectly.

"But... his balloons are gone," Francis could feel Alfred tremble beneath his fingertips. The Frenchman's brows furrowed.

"What?"

Alfred stood abruptly, tilting his face toward the sky. The rain caused his golden hair to be plastered against the sides of his face, except for the one that would never quite stay in place. Francis's hand fell to his lap.

"His balloons, they're gone. They've left. As soon as he dropped his bayonet, and sank to the ground, the balloons tied to his wrist... they all popped. All of them. Every single...last one." Alfred turned his head to look at Francis from the side. His head dropped once more, and he couldn't see his blue eyes.

Francis stood, and walked carefully to Alfred, as if approaching a cornered animal.

"Alfred, what balloons are you talking about?"

The American's hands clenched themselves into fists, and then relaxed again. His shoulders shook, as he laughed humorlessly, and was interrupted by a hiccup.

"Never mind Francis, I'm out of my right mind at the moment. Please, forgive me," Alfred hiccupped again.

Francis's mouth struggled to form words, until he realized the hiccups spilling from Alfred were sobs. Francis let down his guard, and guided Alfred slowly back to the muddy bank. Francis hugged Alfred tightly, afraid that he might dissolve if he let him go. The moment you became a country was frightening. You could hear the voices of citizens, feel the stability of the nation, and international crises became tangible. Though Alfred was terrified, Francis felt an odd calm wash over him. He had no reason to be afraid of Alfred's innocence ever disappearing. It was a basic element of Alfred, something that could never be separated.

* * *

Alfred looked up to the person who stood before him, eyes shining brightly, wet with unshed tears. His chubby fingers reached to the colorful objects floating above the person with bushy eyebrows. The man with eyebrows misinterpreted it as a plea to pick him up, but Alfred was okay with that too. As the man bent down, and pulled him into his arms, Alfred laughed, a sound that remained in the afternoon sunlight and memories of two hearts. Alfred opened his eyes as he laughed, and a new colorful thing slowly appeared, anchored to the man with a string. It was unlike his other ones, which were mainly dark shades of blue and violet with the occasional crimson and rare, bright yellow hidden amongst the bunch.

"Wah! Mishtur!" Alfred pointed at the new pink balloon that settled amongst the others, its string longer than most of the balloons so it floated high above the others. He emitted an exclamation of wonder. The man looked confusedly in the direction he was pointing. He shrugged.

Alfred dismissed the thought as he looked at the man. He reached out to grab the man's face between his small hands. His eyes were a startling green, but his smile was warm.

"My name is Alfred! Whash yours?" At those words, a few dark black balloons came loose from the bunch and slowly floated away. It was easier to see the yellow and pink balloons now.

The man tried to speak, but Alfred's grip on his cheeks made it impossible to speak clearly. His answer came out all garbled.

"Arfur."

"Hi Arfur!" Arthur shifted Alfred's weight to his left arm, and with his right arm now free, he used his hand to pry Alfred's small hands from his face. It was no small feat, considering the boy had the strength to throw a buffalo. Arthur chuckled and ruffled his hair and he smiled.

"Arthur," he corrected gently.

Alfred's lips quirked to the side. "I know! Thash what I said! Arfur!"

A small feeling of warmth spread in the Briton's stomach. Alfred's stomach grumbled before he could give the feeling much thought.

"Come now, let's get you something to eat."

Another one of those warm smiles, and Alfred happily obliged.

* * *

Alfred numbly gazed out the window of a modern high rise, the meeting place of another G8 summit. He could see the clouds floating above the cityscape of Berlin, as Ludwig's voice droned on about another problem that could be easily solved with cooperation between nations, which was next to impossible. His eyes caught his own reflection, and he again glanced at the bundle of colorful balloons that floated over his head as he sat in an uncomfortable office chair. He knew his own well, he had counted them and recounted them in his head over and over again. Seven balloons, all of assorted colors, tied to his wrist by strings as thin as paper. He didn't remember where he had accumulated all of them, but the three he could remember were three he had garnered recently. In nations' time anyway. The dark black one had been from the 9/11 incident. He nearly shivered. The deep blue one from his separation from England. The red one had been there a while, but it had been after his separation from Arthur. Alfred's cheeks tinted a light rose. The other four were varying hues of violet, green, yellow and orange.

Alfred had figured it out when he was still living with Arthur, what the balloons colors had meant. Red was simply love, whether it was a past love, unrequited, or returned. Pink was unconditional happiness and joy. Black was pain, blue was grief, and white fear. Orange was anger, yellow was tainted happiness, or happiness that was only conditional. Green was loneliness, and purple was companionship. You received a balloon during a moment of extreme emotions, and collected them as you would a feather for your hat. If the countries had previous relationships that were no longer standing, the red balloons usually floated away, unless they were still carrying a torch.

Alfred sighed, and looked around the room. Spain sat across the wide mahogany table from him, next to Romano. They had at least twice the number of balloons Alfred had. Lovino's were mainly green, blue and black, which pained Alfred's heart somewhat. Antonio's were a rainbow of colors. But each of them only had one red balloon, floating high above the others. Antonio leaned over to whisper to Lovino, and Alfred had to smile. As Lovino turned a bright shade of red similar to that of a tomato, their red balloons' strings lengthened.

Alfred glanced at Yao and Kiku, seated nearby Ivan and Estonia. They took their notes studiously, though Estonia shivered at Ivan's aura. Alfred had once misunderstood Ivan, but now the misunderstandings were all water under the bridge. Ivan's balloons were a cluster of black and green. He knew that Ivan desired a purple one, and he counted himself lucky to have one.

He continued along the table, watching Roderich and Gilbert. He didn't understand why Gilbert had balloons, or even still existed. Roderich had several red balloons, though Gilbert had only one. Elizaveta had no red balloons. Ludwig and Feliciano each had one red balloon, amongst a smattering of pinks, blacks and purples. Heracles had fewer balloons, yellow and blue, several red. Alfred wondered what that was about. Francis and Matthew sat beside each other. Alfred knew without looking that his brother had more than him, most green, yellow and blue. One red though. Alfred had wanted to snicker, the first time he had seen it, but at around the same time in the early 1940s, his had appeared. Francis was surprisingly alike, and held mainly yellow ad blue balloons, as well as one red. The countries and their people were all so different. They all had one thing in common though, and that was their balloons. Deny as vehemently as they might, but the one thing they all shared was the ability to feel. Except for the country of England.

The American chanced a sideways glance at Arthur, who sat beside Antonio. It pained him to see that even hundreds of years after the Revolutionary war, Arthur still held no balloons. Alfred's heart stuttered to a complete halt as Arthur slid his eyes along the table, and slowly came to rest upon his. Alfred watched in wonder as a single green balloon floated above Arthur's head. As quickly as the fleeting moment arrived, it disappeared, and Arthur forced himself to look at Ludwig. Alfred looked again to see that the green balloon had all but remained. Perhaps it was only his imagination.

* * *

"You little- Get over here right now Alfred!" Arthur called exasperatedly as he chased after the 11-year old nation. "It's time to eat!"

"That's exactly why I don't want to go home! Your food is terrible!" Alfred grinned as he looked over his shoulder while running. Arthur was running after him along the coast of Massachusetts. The autumn leaves were falling, jewel tones of amber and flaming reds and oranges. Alfred turned a sharp left, and laughed aloud as Arthur nearly hit a tree. The shoreline along his left, dense forest, the well-travelled path beneath his feet and balloons following along behind him. He smiled, as Arthur sputtered and continued after him. He knew Arthur couldn't quite hide the smile that came to his face as well. He ran along taking joy in the fact that he spotted another pink balloon appear beside Arthur's right arm. He watched Arthur over his shoulder as he continued to run. Arthur's half smile turned to a look of fear as he cried out "Alfred!" Alfred looked confusedly ahead of him and tried to backpedal as he had veered sharply to the left. The high cliffs they were running along dropped off to the sands of the shoreline that the waves crested over.

Alfred careened over the edge of one, and felt himself rolling quickly down the hill. The brush that clung to the sides of the cliff scratched his exposed skin and tore at his clothes. He was jostled roughly as he came to a stop at the base of the drop off.

He blearily lifted his head up, but immediately dropped it as he felt a powerful headache come on. He screwed his eyes shut tightly and forced himself to breathe in and out. He could vaguely hear Arthur frantically calling his name from the top of the cliff. What felt like hours was only seconds as Arthur found an alternative route to the bottom of the cliffs.

"Alfred! Are you alright? Please don't - " Arthur's chest heaved from the exertion of running for an extended amount of time.

Alfred opened his eyes again, to see the pink balloon had gone, and was replaced by a white one. "Sorry to frighten you Arthur. I think I'll be alright in a few hours."-

Arthur sighed in relief, gently lifting Alfred's head. "You little brat. You worried me. Don't ever do that again. Please."

It was then Alfred realized that moments dictated the balloons, and that balloons did not control moments.

* * *

Alfred shoved Arthur roughly against the desk, pressing himself as closely as physical limitations allowed. Arthur reacted strongly by pressing his lips against Alfred's, and threading his hands through his blonde hair. Alfred didn't know quite how this had happened. He supposed the war was having a strong effect on each of the countries, and confusing their minds. The Ludwig they all knew was strict but caring. This war was changing him. Alfred desperately wanted something he knew would always be there. And he had found Arthur sitting alone in the grey canvas tent after the rest of the soldiers had retired for the night. And somehow through their bickering, he had leaned over the makeshift desk, and kissed Arthur. Arthur hadn't exactly shoved him off, but he hadn't responded immediately. Alfred didn't know how this had happened.

All he knew was Arthur at that exact moment.

Arthur was there, and some part of Alfred had always known that the Briton was attractive, but it just never registered until now. As they parted, Alfred looked down at the Briton, flushed and panting. Alfred wanted his body to _stop _but it just would not. He was afraid of breaking Arthur, because he knew Arthur had some semblance of feelings for him, and he couldn't return them. At least not yet. And he was terrified that he would hurt Arthur even more than he already had.

Alfred's hands wandered across Arthur's jacket as he leaned in to take in more of Arthur. Sweet, intoxicating, Arthur. Alfred felt his knee come between Arthur's thighs to part them. Arthur sat on the desk, and allowed Alfred to follow. He dragged Alfred's tie forward to kiss him again, as his hands sought out the American's. Alfred's fingers briefly interlaced with Arthur's as Arthur tugged off Alfred's black leather gloves. Alfred impatiently returned his hands to Arthur's hips, and as he lifted his shirt, the feeling of his bare hands against Arthur's warm skin was much more satisfying. Arthur's nimble fingers returned to Alfred's collar to gently tug his tie loose. The warm feeling in his stomach travelled south, and grew stronger with each kiss Arthur left along his jaw. The American fumbled with the Briton's belt, but was frustrated as his shaking hands could not undo it fast enough.

Arthur shoved his bomber jacket off, and returned his hands to roaming over his chest. It had been quite a while for the both of them, and Alfred could feel that he wouldn't last much longer. He devoted his remaining attention to Arthur, and had to muffle his voice from waking the soldiers in the nearby tents. He bit down on the juncture between Arthur's neck and shoulder. Arthur cried out loudly and buried his head in Alfred's shoulder. It all came to a crisis, and Alfred followed Arthur over the edge experiencing a feeling that couldn't be put to words. It was breathtaking, and mind-shattering. Alfred's breathing evened out as he rested against Arthur. He could feel Arthur shuddering beneath him. He pulled back from the desk to see Arthur shedding fierce tears that he tried to scrub from his face with a balled up fist.

"Damn it all, I love you," Alfred heard Arthur's accented voice say, and he froze.

"Art-Arthur... I can't-" Arthur understood without Alfred having to say the words.

He shoved the American off of him, and fixed his jacket as he stormed out of the tent. Alfred watched him go without saying a word. He felt a tear slide down his own cheek and wiped it away furiously. He noticed that as he brought his wrist to his face, a seventh string had appeared. He didn't need to look up to know it would be a fierce scarlet. He struggled with the fact that it had a come a little late. He lifted the tent flap to exit and return to his own tent. He saw Arthur far off in the distance, face turned away. He could see, even with his smudged glasses that there were no balloons.

God damn it, he just wanted to make Arthur feel again.

* * *

Alfred watched in shock as Arthur collapsed to the ground before him, rifle and bayonet lowered. He sobbed into his hands. The rain couldn't hide the tears.

A blue balloon drifted above the American's blonde head. He looked down at the nation before his feet. His face fell, to one of sorrow. "What happened Arthur? You used to be so big."

At that remark, Alfred watched astonished as the seventeen balloons Arthur never was seen without popped. What had he done to make the balloons _pop_?

* * *

"Alfred put those scissors down!" Arthur exclaimed as he grabbed the scissors from the seven year old's hands. Alfred didn't particularly mind this time, because he had done everything he could think of with the silver scissors to his balloons. He had tried cutting the strings, popping the balloons and sawed at the bows around his wrist. Arthur's look of annoyance turned to one of worry as he looked at Alfred's wrist. It had been sliced and cut with each slip of Alfred's hand. Alfred could finally feel the pain, and he sniffled as Arthur gripped his hand tightly.

"Come now, Alfred, let's go clean you up." Arthur led him to the bathroom, and Alfred sat upon the closed toilet seat lid. Arthur wet a rag and gently rubbed it over the vicious red marks on Alfred's wrist.

"Why Alfred?" Arthur paused from his tender brushes to gaze into the child's blue eyes. The American looked down.

"I-I just wanted to get rid of the balloons." Alfred murmured. Arthur looked at him strangely.

"Balloons? What balloons?" It was then Alfred learned no one could see the balloons. He never mention the afterwards to anyone, only once on accident, to Francis years in the future. But he had learned something. Just as he could not get rid of the balloons which would forever follow him, he could not rid himself of his past.

* * *

Alfred watched the nations stand and stretch as the G8 meeting ended. He tried to hide his glances at Arthur. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Arthur watching him. Alfred never was one to be patient, and for over 50 years he had been pretty damn reasonable, he considered. Arthur had requested that he leave him alone after the series of events during World War II. Since then, there had been no reason for them to meet for business, but Alfred wanted there to be every reason for them to meet besides business. He was tired of waiting for Arthur. He sorely regretted his actions from the war years.

Everything Arthur did, he missed. The weird biscuits and tea at 3 o'clock sharp every afternoon. The way he would try to hide his smile with a scoff each time Alfred had made him laugh. The feeling of his sandy blonde hair on his fingertips. His drunken confessions at midnight. The way his eyes darkened at the sight of Alfred so many years ago. The way he made Alfred feel complete. Everything he did.

Alfred could say he loved him now. He could do it so easily. Every fiber of his being was practically begging him to say it. Alfred wanted so badly to. But he didn't want to hurt him again. The Revolutionary War hadn't exactly gone over well, and the following World Wars brought even more miscommunications. He had to do something though. And today was a day damn well as good as any other.

Arthur walked to the doorway, and paused to glance at Alfred. His face warmed as he saw Alfred watching him. He quickly made his escape through the door. Alfred sighed, and packed up his briefcase. He cleaned up his mess of McDonald's wrappings and bags and tossed them into the trashcan. He gripped his briefcase tightly, and exited the room. He found Arthur seated on a bench across the street in a small park with a grove of trees. He tried to soothe his rapidly beating heart. He sat beside Arthur, who gave no indication of what he was thinking. He kept watching the small ripples the wind caused in the water.

No silence had been as deafening to Alfred. He cleared his throat.

"Arthur - please, speak to me. Or at least, please, listen."

Arthur's emerald eyes finally met Alfred's blue ones, and any hopes of a calm heart for either of them were smashed to smithereens. Alfred grinned at him, and Arthur shyly looked away.

"... Well, I'm listening."

Alfred threaded his hands together.

"I know money doesn't much matter to people like us, but just imagine that there's this bank account that credits you with $86,400. Every day. You don't get to carry over the balance from day to day, but it credits you with $86,400, every day. What would you do?" Alfred refused to meet his eyes.

Arthur looked confusedly at Alfred. "Well, take out every cent, I suppose. Why? What would you do?"

Alfred laughed humorlessly. "I thought I would, but I guess I didn't. Every morning, we are granted 86,400 seconds. Every night, it writes off as lost, whatever you have failed to invest in life. It doesn't carry over time. It just doesn't work like that. I didn't use the deposit, and the loss was always mine."

Arthur scooted a little closer. "... You're being surprisingly reflective Alfred. I didn't think you even knew what a bank account was."

The American grinned at that. "You're right. I still have no clue how one works. But what I'm trying to say Arthur, is that I wasted all my time. And I'm sorry for it. Really. I think... I messed up big time. With life, with you, with everything."

Arthur's breath caught, and he leaned forward to catch the rest of Alfred's words.

"I don't know what to do I mean after the Revolutionary War - you were everything I had ever known, and I was lost in the world. It took a lot for me to get my footing, and that was mainly thanks to Matthew. I did something to you during the Revolution because the balloons - I mean, you just kind of cut yourself off. And I couldn't help but blame it on myself. Because it's true. That I did something."

Arthur sighed. The metal bench was cold, and Alfred's hands desperately wanted warmth. Or to hold Arthur's hands, where he knew the warmth he was seeking was hidden.

"I'll admit, since then, I stopped feeling, really." Alfred's eyes widened. Then the balloons - if you stopped feeling they would disappear?

"But there was always one thing that never changed since the first war amongst all of us. I couldn't help but fall in love with you. I knew it was a stupid thing to do, because you were so dense, and young, and inexperienced. Because you were Alfred. But I also fell for you, because you were just, and fair, and your hero complex is only because you're so naïve that you think you can save the whole world. And you were sweet. A moron, but... I fell for you. Because you were Alfred. That was the only thing I had felt in years. And I hinged my self worth on it completely. I still do."

Alfred stuck his tongue in his cheek. Then the balloons shouldn't have disappeared. A red one should have remained - Alfred looked up at his out of habit. It too, had gone. Alfred was about to panic, before he felt a sudden warmth. His cheeks colored as Arthur leaned against him ever so slightly. His smiled couldn't be contained, ad he buried his face in Arthur's hair.

"Let's get this straight. I still think you're the biggest twit to ever walk the earth."

"I love you too Artie." Arthur's hand found itself in Alfred's hand. He had no idea how it got there. His hand had an idea of its own, sneaky bugger.

"Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Arthur."

* * *

The first time Alfred fell into bed with Arthur, he had taken it slowly. He was still afraid of breaking him. He took it slowly, pleasuring Arthur as if he were all that existed. His lips were irresistible, and he couldn't part with them. Alfred paused, and looked at the Briton beneath him. His green eyes still felt like they could see straight through him, and made him feel vulnerable. But then Arthur had smiled, and taken his hand, bringing his head down to kiss him slowly. God, he kissed like he had all the time in the world. And then Alfred felt whole again. They slipped underneath the sheets as they carried on through the night.

Alfred didn't need to see the red balloon to know that Arthur loved him too.

* * *

Francis, unknowingly, had discovered the answer to the mystery of the balloons. He held the key, but it was useless without the knowledge necessary for it.

It had been during a G8 meeting lunch break when Sealand came running through the door to crash into him.

"Peter? What are you doing?"

Sealand stuck out his tongue in mock disgust "Jerk England and Alfred were making out in the closet that was my secret base!"

Francis lifted a hand to his face to cover his laughter. "Ohohon, really now? Which closet was that? Ow!"

Sealand blew a raspberry as he kicked Francis's shin. "You perverted frog! They had a bunch of pink balloons."

"Well, I've never heard of that kind of kink before- Ouch! Would you stop doing that you little-"

"No stupid! On their wrists! They're so happy it's making me sick." Sealand ran off before Francis could question him further. Francis nearly rolled his eyes as he searched out Tino to tell him to take his kid to counseling.

When he had lost his balloons, Alfred hadn't lost his innocence, or stopped feeling. He had finally become an adult.

* * *

**Fin! So what did you think? Was it to rushed or anything? Thanks so much for reading, I appreciate it! Please review, I really love hearing from you guys!**

**-Lifeisforlivingoutloud**

* * *

For Moments and Balloons


End file.
